


Caught In Her Web

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Breeding, F/F, Humiliation, Mind Control, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, badwrong noncon porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: She reaches her hand out, hopes that it doesn’t come off as overly formal. “I’m Melanie.”The woman’s smile widens, and she takes Melanie’s hand. Her hand is soft, but her grip firm. She has a dark plum manicure that matches her lipstick, all of her nails long and perfect, except for her pointer and index fingernails, which are short and blunt. Really good sign, that.“Pleasure to meet you, Melanie. I’m Annabelle.”-Annabelle Cane is looking for someone to help her carry out one of her more practical duties as a Daughter of the Web. Melanie King happens to catch her eye.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Melanie King
Comments: 30
Kudos: 204





	Caught In Her Web

“Fuck off,” Melanie spits, and shoves the guy out of her space. 

He’d been standing close to her before, and it hadn’t been strange, since it’s a pretty crowded party. Around thirty people maybe, all crammed into the same studio apartment. The music is just this side of too loud, and everyone is talking or shouting or laughing over each other. And then he’d put his arm around her waist, which she hadn’t minded either, seeing as she was hoping to get laid before the end of the night. 

She hasn’t had an orgasm in _months_ at this point, and it’s starting to be a problem. She’s been simmering with pent up frustration, snapping at coworkers too easily, angry over small things that she’d usually let slip without thinking about it. She _needs_ this. 

But that doesn’t mean that she wants to be talked to like a human fleshlight, for fuck’s sake. 

“Hey, don’t be like that, I don’t know why I said--” he says, and she stalks past him brusquely, shouldering him out of the way, drawing some stares that prickle at her uncomfortably. Do they think she’s the bad guy here? That she’s overreacting, being a dramatic bitch? 

God, they probably do. The idea of it sours the last of the good anticipatory mood the party had stoked up inside of her until now. It makes her want to turn around and _shout_ at the guy, but that’s just going to draw _more_ stares and make her look even _more_ like a bitch and someone will probably film it on their phone and post it on twitter and there’ll be a hashtag and she’ll have to make a careful statement on the shows account that’s going to be drafted and re-drafted by the rest of the cast to try and phrase it as diplomatically as possible before they post it and then it’ll be picked to pieces anyways and it’ll be a whole fucking thing that’ll be dragged up every single time she messes up in the future even after it blows over because the internet _never fucking forgets--_

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to walk away from the guy. People stop staring, easily turning their attention back to their own conversations, forgetting her. No one films her. 

God _damn_ it, she wants to get fucked. Except for how she’s way too pissed off right now to be able to walk up to another stranger, introduce herself, make small talk, and try and be witty and attractive and the appropriate amount of flirty. She’d just come off as curt and hostile, she knows from experience. She’s going to need to go home and cool off before she tries again. _Fuck._ So much for having a good time. 

She reaches the drinks table and grabs herself a shot, downing it with an abrupt motion. All of the energy she wants to use to just punch that douchebag that wasted her time and effort this whole evening, flirting and talking to her like he was a decent guy that she’d be willing to allow to put his dick inside of her, when he was actually just yet another asshole. The alcohol burns on the way down, and she grimaces, remembers just in time not to rub at her mouth. She’s wearing lipstick. 

What a waste. What a waste of an evening, an outfit, make up, hope and anticipation. Ugh, yeah, she’s pissed. Time to go home. 

She turns to start making her slow way through the crowd towards the door, and then a woman catches her eye. 

Her bleached hair contrasts strikingly with her dark skin, and her outfit makes her stand out even more. Heels, a flaring high waisted poodle skirt in a dark purple color, a black short sleeved button up shirt, pearls on her wrists, neck, and earlobes, and a shawl tied around the back of her head, keeping her cloud of pale hair somewhat contained in an artful sort of way. It’s all tastefully vintage enough for a carefully constructed instagram post. Something about the whole ensemble must give her a certain untouchable aura, because she isn’t crowded in close by other people the way everyone else in the room is. She’s given space to breathe, to stretch. 

The woman gives her a polite smile, and looks away. The eye contact had been incidental, a coincidence. Melanie looks away as well, and starts trying to wade her way through the rest of the party goers. 

_She’s beautiful,_ Melanie thinks, and she’s almost startled by it. She looks back towards the woman, as if to affirm this. And yes, she is beautiful. Objectively, uniquely. She’s _stylish,_ and unruffled and polished in a way that Melanie almost envies. She looks at her for another long moment, and the woman does not look back, does not notice her. She’s just sipping at her drink and idly letting her gaze wander across the crowd. Melanie can’t believe that no one’s trying to talk to her, flirt with her. 

_Which means I have an opening,_ she thinks. She shakes her head to try and clear it. Sure, the woman looks pretty, and she probably won’t be as unpleasant as the earlier guy was-- or at least, she’ll be a different brand of unpleasant if she is. But Melanie’s in a bad mood, and she’s bad at flirting when she’s already irritated. Staying any longer would just be more wasted time. Time to call it a night. She makes herself look away, makes herself walk. 

_But what if I don’t see her again,_ she thinks, and there’s an unexpected plaintive fear in that thought. 

She stops. Bites her lower lip. Sighs at herself. Turns around and starts heading towards the woman instead. She won’t flirt, won’t try and take her home. She’s not in the right headspace for that any longer. But she knows that if she just walks out of here without the woman’s name or number or instagram handle or _whatever,_ no way of contacting her or finding her again to shoot her shot when she’s thinking more clearly, then she’ll regret it. And regret fucking sucks. So, she’ll go and try. She’ll be able to tell herself that, later. At least I tried. That should quiet all of the wistful ‘but what if I had’s from popping up in the first place. 

“Hey,” she says, when she finally gets close enough. She bites back a wince at how abrupt it feels, how awkward and overeager. But how the hell else was she supposed to start the conversation? 

The woman looks at her. She smiles, like she’s pleased to see Melanie, and some of that warm anticipation from earlier kicks back in, just the smallest ember. 

“Hello,” she says, and the small bubble of clear space that seems to gravitate around the woman is really nice, actually. Melanie doesn’t like to be pushed and brushed up against by a bunch of strangers when she’s feeling pissy. It even feels quieter here, no one laughing or talking to someone else less than a foot away. 

She reaches her hand out, hopes that it doesn’t come off as overly formal. “I’m Melanie.” 

The woman’s smile widens, and she takes Melanie’s hand. Her hand is soft, but her grip firm. She has a dark plum manicure that matches her lipstick, all of her nails long and perfect, except for her pointer and index fingernails, which are short and blunt. _Really_ good sign, that. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Melanie. I’m Annabelle.” 

_Nice voice,_ Melanie thinks, and the heat in the pit of her stomach stirs a little more. 

“Yeah, nice to meet you too, Annabelle. So,” she flounders for a subject, momentarily distracted by how nice Annabelle’s voice is, how soft her hand, her perfume that she can smell now that she’s close enough, what is that scent-- “how do you know Sierra?” 

Sierra being the host of the party. The smallest of small talk, but it’s a start, right? 

_Her perfume is lavender,_ Melanie thinks. _And I want to smell it more, deeper, closer. I want to bury my face in her neck and inhale._

She has to clench her thighs tightly where she stands at the way that horse kicks her libido into a sudden spike of heat and want, has to shove both of her hands into her leather jacket pockets to resist the urge to needily press a palm up against her crotch. 

“How about you?” Annabelle asks, and Melanie realizes that she was so blinded by arousal for a moment there that she’s missed Annabelle’s answer entirely. Christ, she didn’t realize it was _that_ bad. She’s an embarrassing mess. 

“We were both guest stars on the same podcast once,” she answers, trying not to stutter or fumble, trying to sound like a mostly sober adult who isn’t desperately attracted to her, even as the want coils tightly in the pit of her stomach, trying to distract her with images of her mouth and nose against Annabelle’s neck. It’s harder than it should be, with Annabelle’s perfume in the air, suddenly impossible to ignore. 

Annabelle hums with polite interest. Melanie’s usually better at this. At talking, networking. Because if Annabelle’s at Sierra’s party, then that means that she does run in the same circles as Melanie, that getting along with her and having her number could be useful someday. 

But she’s such a distracting woman, and her mouth feels so dry. Annabelle’s eyes go up and down her once appraisingly, and Melanie resists the urge to hide, or to straighten her back too obviously. She’s wearing tight black trousers with ripped up knees, high heeled boots, and a loose thin red top to go with her dark red lipstick and chipped nailpolish, her ears full of piercings. She’s dressed, in other words, to try and look hot. Not as pretty and polished as Annabelle, not like a perfect doll, but in a more approachable grungy way, she hopes. 

She hopes Annabelle likes what she sees. 

“You’re very pretty,” Annabelle says, a brazenly simple and straightforward compliment. 

“Uh--” she coughs, startled, but _pleased._ “Thanks. You too.” 

Annabelle smiles at her again, almost approvingly. 

This is. Going _shockingly_ well. Easily, even. It’s not that she’s bad with people-- sure, sometimes she just doesn’t click with someone, and they just grate and grate. But she just as often gets along with people just fine. But she’d been in a bad mood, had walked up to Annabelle with only the thought of getting herself an ‘at least I tried, now stop thinking about it’. But instead Annabelle seems to be-- well, she won’t assume yet, but yeah. She’s getting some good vibes. 

The night might actually still end the way she’d hoped it would. 

Melanie smiles back at her. 

_Kiss her,_ Melanie thinks, and so she does. Just leans forward and a little bit up--she’s about two inches taller than Melanie--and presses her lips against Annabelle’s. She closes her eyes and just lingers in the feeling of it, the warmth of her lips, the pressure, being so close to her delicious perfume. 

And then her eyes pop open and she recoils. 

_“Shit,”_ she swears, and then, “Fuck, sorry. I should’ve asked first-- wasn’t thinking--” 

“It’s okay,” Annabelle says soothingly, smirking. “I liked it.” 

Melanie tries to calm her heartbeat back down. Damn, she’s only been talking to this woman for five minutes, it’s not alright to lean in and kiss a stranger without asking first. She must be a bit more buzzed than she’d first thought. That would explain some stuff. 

Annabelle’s soft lovely hand comes up to Melanie’s face, and strokes her cheek in a remarkably tender and fond way. “Really, don’t worry about it so much. It was good.” 

It was good. Annabelle liked it. Melanie licks her lips, and imagines that she might taste some Annabelle there, lingering. Annabelle’s eyes fix on her mouth as she makes the motion, and she feels her face start to go hot and red. 

_Ask her home,_ Melanie thinks. 

“D’you wanna come home with me?” she asks, feeling a little bit drunk and reckless off of the kiss, of Annabelle’s eyes on her mouth and her hand on her face. How pretty she is. Her smell. _God,_ she needs to get fucked. 

Annabelle had liked her being forward, right? 

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Annabelle says, and Melanie tries not to beam too obviously. “Lead the way, Melanie.” 

She does. With Annabelle at her side, the crowd parts for them like the Red Sea, and their getaway is quick and easy. Melanie thrills at how _easy_ this is, how right it feels. And fuck it yes, she’s excited too. She’s finally going to have sex, and it’s going to be with ridiculously hot _Annabelle._

The rush of chilled night air makes her feel more sober, but also more invigorated. Annabelle takes hold of her arm, like she’s a dainty lady and Melanie a dashing gentleman, and she kind of feels like it in that moment. 

“I don’t live far from here,” she says. “It’s just a quick walk.” 

“Wonderful,” Annabelle says, and Melanie walks as fast as she can without being a bother to Annabelle and her heels. 

As they walk, she keeps getting these _I should_ and _I want_ thoughts in her head, hyper vivid images and urges. She wants to take Annabelle’s clothes off, she wants to ride her face, she wants to bury her face in her tits. She wants, she wants, she _wants._

By the time they finally get to Melanie’s flat, she’s wet enough to soak her underwear. She fumbles for her keys, tries to get them into the lock without trembling with urgency, and wonders if she was supposed to make smalltalk with Annabelle on the walk home, flirty empty chatter. She’d been too distracted by her thoughts, the hungry _anticipation._

The lock finally opens, and she almost makes a noise of sheer relief at the click. She opens the door, and then holds it open for Annabelle on a whim. The way she dresses, how she’d taken Melanie’s arm-- it somehow feels like the kind of thing that she’d appreciate. 

“Ladies first,” she says, a little bit sheepish, a little bit playful. 

Annabelle gives her that approving smile again, and then daintily crosses Melanie’s threshold. Melanie follows her, closing and locking the door behind her. 

“Lead the way,” Annabelle says, gesturing into the flat. To your bedroom, she means. Melanie beams at her, her skin feeling hot and prickly. This night is ending so, so very much better than she’d thought. 

“Right,” she says, and she can’t stop smiling, but so is Annabelle, so it can’t be a problem. She leads the way towards her bedroom, Annabelle following behind her. She sweeps her eyes over the place as she enters, trying to see how Annabelle would view the place. She’d cleaned before she left of course, knowing that there was a decent chance that a stranger would be coming back with her, if she got lucky. She hadn’t been expecting someone like _Annabelle,_ though. The whole flat seems sort of lackluster in comparison to her. 

But Annabelle doesn’t stop to shoot anything a disgusted or judgemental glance. She just walks past Melanie and sits neatly down on the bed. 

_Take your clothes off,_ Melanie thinks, and yeah, that’s a _great_ idea. 

She takes her boots off and throws them away to the floor one by one without a glance, _thunk, thunk._ Tugs her top off, leans down to peel her tight black trousers off her legs. She peeks over at Annabelle as she goes, wonders if she’s doing the same thing. She isn’t. She’s sitting in the exact same spot, but now she’s got her legs daintily crossed, and she’s resting her chin on the knuckles of one of her hands, her arms crossed, in a contemplating sort of way, like she’s taking her time admiring an art piece. She’s smirking, in a self satisfied, hungry sort of way. It makes a bolt of heat shoot through Melanie’s stomach, and she turns her focus back on taking off her bralette, quicker now. Her pants go down last, tugging it past her hips and letting them slide down her legs to puddle at her ankles before she steps out of them, towards Annabelle. 

_Sit in her lap,_ Melanie thinks. She goes. Annabelle’s steady gaze draws her in inexorably, and she settles herself down in Annabelle’s lap. Annabelle’s still fully clothed, but that’s okay, Melanie doesn’t care. 

“Come here,” Annabelle says, gently taking hold of Melanie’s chin and pulling her forwards into a kiss. Melanie follows Annabelle’s direction easily, eagerly. This is exactly where she wants to be, after all. 

Annabelle takes her time with the kiss, deepening it, drawing it out slow and hot. When she finally draws back Melanie feels hot and flushed and needy, and she’s so fucking _wet,_ goddamn it. She hopes Annabelle doesn’t want to spend _too_ long on foreplay, because she’s been keyed up for an embarrassingly long time by now. 

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Annabelle says appreciatively. “You’re going to do just excellently, I know it.” 

Melanie smiles, anticipatory and a little bit challenging. “Oh, yeah? You want for me to show you just how excellent I can be?” She tugs at Annabelle’s shirt meaningfully, still on her. 

“Yes, why don’t you go ahead and do that?” 

_Lie down,_ Melanie thinks. She’d been planning on undressing Annabelle, but yes, she should go and lie down. She gets out of Annabelle’s lap and goes to the center of the bed and lies down on her back, her head on the pillow. Annabelle turns and rakes her eyes up and down the stretch of her body and hums approvingly. And then she comes closer and finally, _finally,_ she touches Melanie between her legs, her pointer and index finger slipping neatly inside the wet heat of her. Melanie groans with the sheer relief of it, and it sounds too loud in the room, the only noise besides the slick sound of Annabelle fingering her. 

“It’s been a long time for you, huh?” Annabelle says, and yes thank god some dirty talk, that’s good, she’d forgotten to turn on some music, she’d been so single mindedly focused on this. 

“Yeah,” she admits, and the word comes out as a content sigh at the motion of Annabelle’s fingers filling her up. Fuck, she’s good with her hands. “Too fucking long.” 

“Poor thing,” she says sympathetically. “You should be well taken care of, someone as _cute_ as you. You shouldn’t be frustrated, going on without being fucked like you deserve.” 

She shivers a little at that, clenching down on Annabelle’s slowly thrusting fingers. It feels _good_ to have someone else touching her there, but she can tell that Annabelle’s drawing things out. That’s all well and good, but Melanie sort of wants to rush towards orgasm as fast as possible, and _then_ take her time after that. 

But fuck it, she can hold out a bit longer before resorting to be begging. 

“I’m going to give you what you need,” she goes on. “And more. Don’t you worry.” 

Annabelle is looking down at her with a quiet heat in her eyes, not even biting down on her lip, because what if she gets lipstick on her teeth? She’s still fully clothed, her hair not even ruffled. Meanwhile, Melanie is slowly and thoroughly being driven up a wall by Annabelle’s gentle yet firm touches, the heavy focused intention in her voice as she speaks. Maybe that’s what Annabelle’s into. Maybe she wants to stay clothed and cool and collected while she absolutely _wrecks_ Melanie. That’s fine. She can work with that. She _wants_ to be wrecked. 

Annabelle slides the hand that has been resting until now on Melanie’s hip as she continues to finger her, and it goes to her nipple, caressing it almost idly, and Melanie exhales heavily at that extra bit of sensation, the air in her lungs leaving her all at once. She tries to grind up into Annabelle’s hand, turn the friction into something heavier and faster, but Annabelle’s hand moves with her, keeping her from finding more. 

“Fuck, Annabelle,” she groans, feeling overheated and desperate, half out of her mind with Annabelle’s ministrations which are patiently staying on just this side of too little. She gives up on not begging. _“Please.”_

Annabelle smiles, for the first time showing teeth as she does so. Oh yeah, this is definitely what she wanted. “Please what?” 

“Please just properly _fuck_ me already. I need to come.” 

“Well, in that case,” she says mildly, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s been doing until now. Melanie decides to forgive her as her thumb circles her clit. She arches her back and moans with it, a filthy noise that she’s too far gone to be embarrassed over any longer. 

“Oh, what a pretty sound. Feel free to be as noisy as you want to be, pet.” 

Pet. It’s the condescendingly fond sort of pet name that would usually get her hackles up, but for some reason it just feels good and right to hear that word out of Annabelle’s mouth. 

_Moan_ , Melanie thinks, and so she does. She’s been biting her noises back a bit, as much as she can without completely locking up worryingly silent and stubbornly stoic, in an effort not to sound as desperate and wanting as she feels. Sure, everyone wants an enthusiastic partner, but showing just how much she wants this feels terribly vulnerable, embarrassing. Too much. 

But Annabelle thinks her noises are pretty, and wants for her to make more of them, and Melanie really wants to give Annabelle what she wants, especially with how she’s giving Melanie exactly what _she_ wants at the moment. All self consciousness leaves her all of a sudden, like it’s easy, and she’s left panting and moaning, whimpering a little with overwhelmed desperation. She needs to come so _badly._

“Talk to me,” Annabelle says. “Tell me what you want.” 

_Beg,_ Melanie thinks. 

“Please let me come,” she pleads, too desperate for any shame to have any room left inside of her. Annabelle’s fingers won’t stop moving, and she _needs._ “Please, please, I haven’t come in so long, I _need_ to.” 

“What would you do for it?” 

_“Anything,”_ she promises, voice straining with the mounting tension she can feel inside of herself. 

“Would you do me a little favor, if I let you come? Would you be useful for me?” 

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, god, fuck, _please_ let me come already.” 

Annabelle smiles wider. It looks positively _sharp_ this time. So very pleased with herself. 

“It’s a deal,” she says, crooking her fingers inside of Melanie, thumbing her clit, tugging at her nipple. 

_Come,_ Melanie thinks. She does, all at once. It’s like being shoved off a cliff, like being hit over the head with a sledgehammer. It’s hard and fast and it pulls every muscle in her body taut as a bowstring all at once, sweeping every thought in her head out and away like a tsunami washing away loose debris. She thinks she might be shouting. 

When she comes back to herself, Annabelle’s fingers are still inside of her, just idly, gently rubbing now, and her other hand is carding through Melanie’s hair fondly, like an indulgent pet owner. 

“Christ,” Melanie rasps. “That’s the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had in my _life.”_

“Guess you must have really needed it, then,” Annabelle says. She slips her fingers up inside Melanie to the third knuckles, and makes a pleased noise. “Orgasming has helped relax you, turn you looser. I bet I could fit much more inside of you now.” 

“I have a strap,” she offers up immediately, because fuck _yes_ she wants to go more than just one round tonight. Even if she’s already had the most satisfying orgasm of her life, and she’s still kind of reeling from it. 

Speaking of. She came less than a minute ago, and she kind of needs a moment to recover, but Annabelle won’t stop touching her. She feels sensitive, and it’s starting to edge over the line towards an _unpleasant_ sort of sensitive, too much too soon. 

“Can’t hurt to get you used to something a bit bigger before we escalate,” she says thoughtfully, looking down at where her fingers are slipped up inside of Melanie. She spreads her fingers into a V inside of her, and Melanie twitches, hisses air through her teeth. 

“Give-- give me a moment,” she says, hand going down to Annabelle’s wrist, still clad in a pearl bracelet. She tugs at it, trying to get her fingers out of her. 

Annabelle resists Melanie’s pulling, keeping her fingers stuffed up inside of her, tenderly caressing the slick inside of her cunt. Melanie clenches her teeth and starts to frown. Annabelle isn’t being all sexy in a take charge sort of way any longer. She’s being _pushy_. Melanie hates pushy. 

“Seriously, stop,” she says, firmer, trying to show with her flat tone that this isn’t some fun playful game in which Annabelle is supposed to push past her objections. That she’s actually supposed to _listen._

Annabelle leans down, and kisses her sweetly on the forehead. “It’s alright, dear. Just lie down and let me make you feel good.” 

“I--” 

_Stop talking, lie down, and let her make you feel good,_ Melanie thinks. 

She fully collapses onto the bed again, her head going onto the pillow. She tries to say something, but her lips won’t form the words. 

Annabelle strokes a hand down her thigh. “Good girl.” 

What the fuck is happening. 

She hears Annabelle get out of bed, followed by the soft rustling sounds of fabric. Is she taking off her clothes? 

Melanie clenches and unclenches her hands, successfully. She’s not paralyzed, she can move. She tries to sit up. She can’t. She tries to say something. She can’t. 

Her breathing starts to go fast and shallow. She hears a drawer open and close, and then after another moment Annabelle gets back into the bed. Melanie turns her head-- she can turn her head-- and she sees Annabelle in nothing but a matching lacy set of lingerie now, in the process of tightening and adjusting the buckles of Melanie’s strap into place on herself. 

“This looks like fine equipment,” she praises. “You must like getting properly fucked, hm?” 

Melanie opens and closes her mouth. Looks into Annabelle’s eyes, willing her to see that something has gone wrong here. 

Annabelle laughs. “Oh, don’t go and have a panic attack, of all things. Fine, you can talk if you like. Just keep in mind that you could lose that privilege again.” 

“Annabelle,” she says, and she’s almost startled by the fact that it works. Panic is making her heartbeat thunder, but fearful anger is starting to rise up inside of her now. Annabelle is still smiling, still looking oh so pleased with herself. “What did you do to me?” 

“What do you think I did to you? Slipped something into your drink?” She sounds terribly amused. Melanie _was_ thinking that. But she hadn’t been holding a drink when she’d been talking to Annabelle, had she? She’d already committed to leaving the party at that point, except for how a little voice at the back of her head had stopped her. A nagging insistence drawing her focus back to Annabelle over and over again, against all logic, until she’d surrendered to it and approached her. 

Sly little comments and suggestions that captured her attention like a fishhook catching on her. Thoughts like: 

_She’s beautiful._

_Which means I have an opening._

_But what if I don’t see her again?_

_Nice voice._

_Her perfume is lavender. And I want to smell it more, deeper, closer. I want to bury my face in her neck and inhale._

Followed then by stronger, firmer thoughts. Not merely patiently drawing her focus, nudging her in another direction, but _yanking_ on it, impulses that she followed through on instinctively, reflexively, so quickly that she didn’t even get a chance to stop and think it through first. Thoughts like: 

_Kiss her._

_Ask her home._

_Take your clothes off._

_Sit in her lap._

_Lie down._

_Moan._

_Beg._

_Come._

_Stop talking, lie down, and let her make you feel good._

Even all of those thoughts she’d had on the walk home with Annabelle, all of those little imagined vivid scenarios that made her hands twitch before she remembered that she was just imagining it, it wasn’t really happening yet. 

Something is horribly wrong. It has been all night, and she’s only just now starting to realize it, and she _can’t sit up._

“I see there’s no point to being subtle any longer,” Annabelle notes, closely watching her face. “Very well. Giving people orders that they think come from themselves certainly has its charms, but it’s not the only method at my disposal.” 

“You fucking bitch,” is all she can think to say, as she scrambles to think of a single thing that she can do in the face of this-- this _impossible_ bullshit, this woman who’s apparently been pulling and pushing at her mind _all night--_

Annabelle frowns down at her, and then puts two of her fingers into Melanie’s mouth. The ones she’d been using to finger her. She can bite down on them--

“Suck,” Annabelle orders, and she does. Her teeth brush against Annabelle’s fingers, but she can’t make them press down, can’t even put any tension into her jaw. She just sucks on them, tongue licking the taste of her own slick off her fingers. Annabelle shallowly thrusts her fingers into Melanie’s mouth, lazily fucking it, entirely self assured in her safety. “There, that’s much better. See, I don’t need to be subtle. That was just me being nice, letting you think that you had a say in the matter. But if you’re going to be so crass and ungrateful about it, then fine. I don’t need to be nice. Do you understand? Moan if you understand.” 

Melanie moans around Annabelle’s fingers, wet and muffled. The wanton noise sounds jarring, set against the adrenaline that’s now coursing through her. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, what the fucking shit, _no._

“Good. Now get on your hands and knees.” 

The sensation of her limbs moving against her will is somehow worse than not being able to move them at all. She’s finally off her back, but she’s not getting out of the bed, she’s not attacking the monster pretending to be a woman in her bed. She’s dutifully getting on her hands and knees, as ordered. 

“Good girl,” Annabelle praises her, one hand on Melanie’s arse, the other on her hip. Melanie turns her head over her shoulder as much as she can to see her-- at least that amount of movement is possible, but she can’t do anything that would stop her from being on her hands and knees, so no fucking kicking -- and Annabelle isn’t looking back at her. She’s looking at Melanie’s arse, her dripping cunt, and she bristles at it, terrified and furious at being made to be terrified. 

“I’m not your _good girl,”_ she hisses. “I’m following your orders because I don’t have any choice.” 

Annabelle finally looks up into Melanie’s eyes, only to tilt her head at her, as if she’s said something confusing. “What’s the difference? You did as you were told, and that makes you good. So what if I pulled at your strings to make you do that? The result is still the same. You, obedient.” 

There’s so much wrong with that, that she doesn’t even know where to start, what to say. The difference is obvious, and she doesn’t know if Annabelle genuinely doesn’t know, in which case how could she possibly make her understand something so basic that she should already get it, or if Annabelle’s just acting purposefully obtuse, mockingly faux ignorant, refusing to let on that she knows perfectly well why Melanie’s so pissed off and horrified. 

She takes long enough to respond that Annabelle’s attention wanders back down Melanie’s body. She digs her fingers into the flesh of her arse and makes a pleased noise. “This is very good,” she praises. “You take good care of yourself, I can tell. I have to admit, those _tight_ trousers really are what first drew my attention to you. Terribly vain of me, I know.” 

_I walked up to you first._ Except, that wasn’t really true, was it? Annabelle spotted her, and drew her in like a fish on a line. 

“Fuck off,” she spits. 

Annabelle smacks her on the arse with the flat of her palm, sharp and sudden, and Melanie yelps, pained and startled. 

“Language,” she scolds her. 

“Fuck-- fuck you!” she says, voice jumping up another octave. Incredulity is coursing through her, as well as humiliated indignance. Did she seriously just _slap her on the arse,_ like a misbehaving child? Fuck her, fuck her--

Again, Annabelle smacks her, this time on the other cheek, just as hard and merciless. Melanie chokes. “Honestly, do you _want_ for me to do this? Because that was a very predictable result of your words.” She runs a hand across Melanie’s arse, now stinging and prickling with the sharp impacts from Annabelle’s strikes. She noises appreciatively. “... I can’t say I’d blame you, though. You _do_ have a lovely arse. Very satisfying to hit. And it looks even better reddened.” 

She opens her mouth, and then shuts it, biting back her words. Annabelle chuckles. 

“Now,” she says, “let’s see what we can do about that bad attitude, hm? Maybe what you need is a little more satisfaction, and you’ll settle back down. You were so sweet for me earlier, pet.” 

“Fu--” No, all that happens if she swears is that she gets a spanking. She swallows it back. “... No. That’s not going to work,” she says, injecting as much venom as she can into the simple words. 

“Well, let’s try it and see,” Annabelle says pleasantly, getting into position behind her and between her legs. Melanie feels the blunt head of the strap nudge up against her cunt, and she hisses. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll go slowly for you,” she coos, stroking a hand down Melanie’s side soothingly. 

“I hate you,” she spits. 

“I bet you won’t feel the same after I make you come so hard you can’t see straight,” she says playfully, like this is just more harmless flirting. Melanie snarls. Annabelle starts to push the strap up into Melanie’s entrance. “You really did make the prettiest, most wrecked noises during that first one. You should have seen your _face._ It _has_ been far too long since you last got fucked silly, isn’t it? Poor thing. You don’t deserve such neglect. I’ll take _very_ good care of you.” 

As she’s talking, all silky and demeaning and _fond,_ she keeps pushing further and further into her, inch by torturous inch. It feels like she must have picked the largest dildo Melanie had available, and it _stretches._ Against her will, she whimpers as the sheer girth of it keeps pushing and _pushing_ into her. 

“Oh honey, shh, shh.” Annabelle strokes a hand up and down Melanie’s spine, and doesn’t stop inexorably thrusting up into her for even a moment. “It’s okay, it’s alright. I know you can do it. You’re so _hungry_ for it, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Don’t cry. I know you’re going to be able to take all of this, because you have to. It’s a good thing I thought to stretch you out properly before the main event, hm?”

“I don’t--” Melanie tries to protest, but it’s so hard to think around what’s being pushed mercilessly into her cunt. Her thoughts feel fractured, scattered. “No, I _can’t--”_

“You can,” Annabelle states, like she knows better about what Melanie can and can’t fit into herself than Melanie. Like she’s being silly, overdramatic, childish, and she just needs some reassurance and encouragement to help get her over her needless but adorable little bout of nerves. “You can take whatever I want to give you, and you’ll take it beautifully, like the desperate slut you are. Look at you. So lovely with all of your clothes off, on your hands and knees, gasping and begging with something shoved up inside of you. This is how you’re meant to be. I knew it as soon as I saw you, wearing all of those unnecessary clothes, talking to that man who would only know how to spill his weak seed inside of you, and maybe wring a paltry orgasm or two out of you if he was lucky. I can do better. Treat you like you’re meant to be treated. Don’t you want that? Say it.” 

“I want it.” With Annabelle’s strap buried in her, it takes her a long moment to realize that she’s the one who said that. Her mouth opens again, and she tries to close it. It doesn’t listen. Not to her. “God yes, I want that so badly, _please._ Please fuck me until I can’t get up out of bed any longer, even if you’d let me. Treat me like your pet, I want to be your pet, please, Annabelle, please!” 

Annabelle bends down to press a kiss into Melanie’s spine. She can feel her smile, hear it in her voice. “Well, if you’re asking so _nicely.”_

 _Those aren’t my words,_ she tries to say. _You put them in my mouth, you_ know _that._ But it doesn’t come out. The only things that her mouth is letting her gasp and moan is _please_ and _Annabelle,_ over and over again, broken and wanting, desperate. 

The strap finally bottoms out that last inch inside of her. Annabelle gives a gentle experimental thrust, and hums approvingly as nothing more slides in, only managing to rock Melanie forward, still on her hands and knees, knuckles white as she clutches at the bedspread, trying so hard to close her mouth so she can stop listening to her own voice mewl and beg for more. She sounds so, so-- 

“Perfect,” Annabelle purrs. She draws the strap back out of Melanie, a long drag of silicone against slick hot flesh that makes all of her thoughts fall out of her head for a moment as a long moan is torn out of her throat, and then she _slams_ back in and Melanie _screams._ Annabelle laughs, high and clear. It’s an objectively beautiful laugh. 

_“Please,”_ she begs brokenly, and she wants for it to be a plea for her to stop (no, she doesn’t want to plead at all, she has to get a hold of herself), but it’s a plea for more. She knows it is. 

“Spread,” Annabelle orders plainly, and Melanie immediately makes her knees slide further out so that Annabelle can settle herself more snugly in between her legs. She leans most of her weight on her elbows now, head down, spine curving her arse upwards, her position more precarious. 

Annabelle grabs Melanie’s hips firmly, bracing herself on her knees, and then. 

And then she _fucks_ Melanie. The change in tempo is hard and brutal and sudden, all slow, torturous teasing gone as Annabelle just grips her and matter of factly thrusts her hips at a steady pace so that the strap slams in and out of Melanie’s cunt mercilessly. All Melanie can do is try and hold on so that her arms don’t buckle out from under her, and she’s fucked face first into the mattress. 

“Don’t you like it, dear?” Annabelle says, sounding only slightly out of breath from the exercise. Unruffled. She hasn’t been touched at all, yet, has she. She’s apparently content to just touch and poke and prod at Melanie all night long, with no signs of getting bored of it in sight. “This is exactly where you wanted to be, at the start of the night. In your bed, being thoroughly fucked by a beautiful woman. Aren’t you lucky? You’re being given exactly what you wanted. Tell me how grateful you are, pet.” 

_“Thank you,”_ falls out of her mouth, as uncontrolled as an overwhelmed moan. She’s watched videos of herself before, watched her image on the screen move and say things that she wasn’t willing at the moment. But it’s not the same. The Melanie on the screen never really looked or sounded quite right, enough so that it didn’t feel strange to watch her. The voice was too high, the way the hair swept all wrong. Too used to seeing herself in mirrors. But this sounds like _her._ That’s her voice, coming from her own skull, ringing in her own ears. _Thanking_ Annabelle for being treated like this, talked down to like a _pet,_ fucked hard and fast whether she wants it or not like a _toy._

“Go on,” she says, and she’s still fucking her relentlessly, and Melanie’s hips are twitching back up into her thrusts and that has to be her pulling at her strings again, it has to, the bitch. 

“I’m so, so lucky you saw me and wanted me,” she says in a rush, and she _hates_ the way she sounds. So bare and earnest, breathlessness edging all of her words. “If you hadn’t, I would have just gone and home and tried to fuck myself with a toy and I wouldn’t have done a good job because I’m bad at masturbating and I can’t come on my own, I need help, I’m so helpless. I would have tried to come so hard, and I would have failed anyways, all sweaty and writhing and keening, and I would have _cried_ from it, so frustrated. I’m so happy you’re fucking me. Thank you so much for picking me, Annabelle.”

Annabelle awws, like Melanie’s done something particularly cute or pathetic. “Poor thing. I didn’t know things were so bad! Yes, you are lucky I didn’t pick someone else, hm? There were lots of other lovely girls for me to choose from, after all. All would have served nicely, wet and moaning and begging for it. Everyone’s just so easy for me. But I picked you. Do you want to know why?” 

“Yes,” Annabelle makes Melanie say. 

“Because you’re small,” she says simply. “You’re small, and you have a tight ass, and adorable little tits. Which is all probably going to make this so much harder for you, but I have to admit that I have a type. Besides, I’m sure you’ll survive. You’re feisty, aren’t you?” 

_Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck youfuckyoufuckyoufuck--_

“Yes you are,” she says indulgently, like she’s assuring a dog that _yes_ she’s a good girl, yes you are! You are! 

Melanie wants to bite her. But she has to stay on her hands and knees, and no part of Annabelle is within biting range. 

“You’re so tense, pet,” she says, stroking a hand down Melanie’s stiff back. She can feel herself trembling with tension, can feel her muscles knotting up. “You know this will be easier for you if you just relax, right? Relax. Take it.” 

Against her will, she feels her body relax. No longer trembling and tight, her muscles go lax one by one, until she sways forward with every one of Annabelle’s thrusts, which glide in and out of her cunt more easily now without her inadvertently clutching down on it. She partially collapses, her arms crossing on the mattress and her head falling on them, her back arching upwards as Annabelle keeps a firm grip on her hips and keeps snapping her hips into Melanie. 

“There,” Annabelle huffs. “See? That’s better isn’t it?” 

It is. It’s so, so much better that Melanie can’t help but moan, and she doesn’t even know if Annabelle made her make the noise, if she needed to pull any supernatural strings to get her to be so damned _noisy._ She’d been on just the wrong side of pain and pleasure before, and now she’s back on the right one. It feels so _good._ She bites down on her arm to try and shut herself up, hot and humiliated by herself, by not hating this with every fibre of her being. She’s so slick and open for Annabelle, so _wet,_ and Annabelle keeps thrusting into her so easily, like her body is eagerly welcoming her in. Even biting down on her arm, she can’t help making small muffled sounds, overwhelmed by the sensations. 

She doesn’t entirely hate this, and she _hates_ that. She’s being betrayed by her own eager, desperate, overheated body that wants nothing more than for Annabelle to keep doing what she’s doing. 

“Oh, pet. So sweet for me, making such darling noises. It’s okay, shh, shh. You can touch yourself. Come on. Reach down and play with your clit, it deserves some attention.” 

One of Melanie’s hands reaches clumsily towards the space between her own legs, her other arm doing its best to keep her mostly upright, and she could sob or scream or curse at that, at the way she can’t even make her own hand hesitate, not even so much as a _tremor._ It’s not a matter of will power. Annabelle tells her what to do, and she obeys. It doesn’t matter how intently she despises it. 

Her hand circles at her clit as Annabelle fucks into her, and she moans. She’s so terribly _loud._

Annabelle huffs a fond laugh. “There, there. Don’t be distressed, pet, I know you can do it. You can come. You have me helping you, after all. You want to come so badly, don’t you? Say it.” 

“I want it,” her mouth begs, as her own hand continues to toy with her as mercilessly as Annabelle is. “God, please, I’ve wanted to come for _months,_ I’d do anything for it. Please let me come, please! I’ll be a good girl for you, I promise.” 

She hates the truth edging at all of those words. She wouldn’t do anything for it, she wouldn’t allow _this_ if she had the choice, but-- god, her entire body is thrumming with eager, desperate anticipation. She can’t stop herself from pushing back up against the dildo as it pushes into her. It’s not a lie to say that she wants to come so very, very badly. 

“Well, if you _promise,”_ she says, sounding so, so pleased with herself. “Come, pet.” 

Melanie comes on Annabelle’s strap like a goddamned lightning strike, whiting out all of her thoughts and seizing up all of her muscles as she clenches down on it, crying out, her one free hand clutching at the sheets as if to ground herself. Her other hand does not stop gently stroking her clit. Annabelle does not stop fucking into her. 

“Nnnah,” she slurs, her face pressed up against the mattress. It’s shoved deeper into it with each forward thrust. She turns her face to the side so she can speak, so she can breathe. “Stop,” she rasps, as useless as it is. 

“You said you were going to be a good girl for me if I let you come,” Annabelle reminds her. She does stop, though. It’s such a sheer physical relief, the unrelenting pounding into her finally ceasing, but she doesn’t pull out either. The dildo stays rooted as deep inside of her as it can go, like it’s meant to be there, like that it’s proper place. A book goes on a shelf, a plate goes in a cupboard, and the dildo goes in Melanie’s cunt and stays there. 

“Fuck you,” she makes herself say. 

Annabelle promptly smacks her once on the arse. Melanie doesn’t have enough energy left in her to cry out, but she does flinch, which makes the dildo inside of her shift. She sucks in her breath and carefully doesn’t move another muscle. She’s been fucked tingling and oversensitive. 

Annabelle smoothes her hand down Melanie’s arse cheek, where she’d just sharply slapped her. “You said you were going to be a good girl,” she says, “so that’s what is going to happen, whether you like it not. And you do deserve a reward, despite all of your ungrateful backtalk. You came so beautifully on my silicone cock, pet. You’re so _good_ at coming. You want to be good, don’t you? Say it.” 

“I want to be good,” she says, her voice an exhausted whisper. 

“Of course you do. Everyone wants to be good. And you’re a _very good_ fucktoy, so you deserve a prize. Here it is.” Annabelle leans down over Melanie, her front plastering to Melanie’s back, so she can brush her lips against the shell of Melanie’s ear. The strap subtly shifts with her movements, and it makes Melanie twitch helplessly. “You’re enjoying this. You like this. You like being good for me, like being my pet, like being fucked by me. You absolutely love everything I do to you, because you adore me, and you just want to be useful and pretty.” 

Something… strange happens inside of Melanie’s head. She feels like she loses her hold on something, slipping out of her grasp, but she’s not holding anything. She blinks down at the sheets, feeling suddenly dizzy, mildly disoriented like she’s walked into a room and forgotten why. 

Annabelle leans away, and starts to slowly pull the dildo out of her. Melanie makes a distressed, protesting noise, and clenches down with her pussy to try and keep it where it is. Where it _should_ be. 

“Don’t be sad, dear,” Annabelle says indulgently. “I’ll fill you up again soon. I’m just afraid that my stomach is growing rather sore, with all of this thrusting. I honestly don’t know how people with a cock find the energy for it.” 

She keeps pulling out, and Melanie reluctantly lets the strap slide all the way out of her, whimpering with loss and overstimulation along the way. When it’s finally out of her, she clenches down on _nothing,_ and it’s awful. A bereft noise leaves her as her knees buckle and finally fall, and she’s lying sore and _too empty_ on the bed. 

Annabelle strokes her hair and makes a sympathetic, pitying noise. Melanie leans her head up into Annabelle’s hand, seeking touch, comfort. “Poor thing. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. I just need to get out of this harness first. Feel free to fill yourself up as well as you can while I do so.” 

That’s a good idea. “Okay,” she says. “Thank you.” 

She’s sweaty and exhausted, but still burning with a restless heat, and so achingly empty where she should be filled up and deliciously stretching. She squirms onto her side and worms a hand between her thighs, up into the wet heat of herself. She sucks in a sharp breath as her fingers slide inside of herself. It prickles, in a sort of ‘stop, too much, too soon, back off’ sort of way that she recognizes from when she hasn’t let herself come down from an orgasm yet before she starts touching herself again. But god, it’s so good too that she just can’t resist it. She wants to have something in there. Her fingers are so disappointingly slim after that strap on, though. She strokes her fingers inside of herself as best she can, and bites her lip harshly with how it’s too much and too little all at the same time. It’s not enough, she’s not enough, she needs _help._

“Annabelle,” she gasps needily as she urgently fingers herself, squirming helplessly on her own fingers. 

“Hush,” she says. She is methodically unbuckling the harness of the strap on off herself, and not even looking at Melanie as she works. “Patience.” 

She bites her own tongue to stop herself from begging, to make herself hush. She rolls onto her back so she can suck on two of the fingers on her other hand, shallowly thrusting them into her mouth, stroking her own tongue. She wishes they were Annabelle’s fingers instead. 

“Well, don’t you make a pretty picture?” 

Melanie opens her eyes, which had fallen shut at some point as she’d been concentrating on doing her best to make herself feel as good as she can without outside help. Annabelle is sitting on the bed down by Melanie’s hip, and has gotten the harness off. She’s also taken off her lingerie. She’s _beautiful._

Melanie arches her back and moans shamelessly around her fingers, trying to show off just what a pretty picture she is, how temping she must be to fuck. Annabelle had been right. She’s right about everything. Melanie _is_ small, and she’s got a tight ass and adorable little tits, and that’s wonderful. She wants for Annabelle to fuck her tight hot little body. She wants for Annabelle to do and take whatever she wants from her. Melanie’s going to love all of it, _especially_ if she gets to come again. 

Annabelle strokes her thigh fondly, and Melanie immediately spreads her legs. Annabelle chuckles. “Eager thing, aren’t you?” 

Melanie moans around her fingers again affirmingly, nodding her head. 

“Well, I’ve kept you waiting long enough. You’re as prepped as you’re going to be. Do you remember the promise you made to me earlier, pet?” 

She furrows her brow, confused. After a moment of thinking very hard past the haze of arousal, she shakes her head. She feels bad for forgetting a promise she made to _Annabelle._

Maybe she can make it up to her. She’s fun to fuck. Annabelle certainly seems to enjoy it. 

“That’s alright. I forgive you. It would really be unfair of me to expect for you to remember, with how distracted you were at the time. You promised me that you’d help me with a little favor if I let you come. During your first orgasm, remember?” 

Melanie does remember now. She nods forcefully, eager to smoothe over her brief lapse in memory. 

“Good. And you’re going to uphold that promise, aren’t you?” 

Melanie reluctantly lets her fingers slip out of her lips, spit soaked. She starts stroking and tugging at one of her nipples instead. Her mouth feels too empty without something in it. 

“Yes,” she says. “‘Course.” 

She’s _very_ grateful for being allowed to come. That’s worth anything. 

“Good girl,” Annabelle praises, and Melanie can’t help but shiver a bit. Her hips cant up towards her own hand needily, and she bites her lower lip to stop a loud moan, if only not to interrupt Annabelle while she’s talking. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Now, as for the favor. My Mother gives me a lot of responsibilities, you know. I’m a dutiful Daughter to her, and I do good work, and so I get a lot of important chores to fulfill. Are you following me so far?” 

“Yes,” Melanie says. She _thinks_ she’s following so far, but she’s also really, really hoping that Annabelle’s going to start touching her soon, more than just idly stroking her thigh. 

“Excellent. Now, one of those duties I’m granted is… filling up the ranks. Like this little adorable fellow here.” Annabelle turns her head to the side, and then puts her hand to her head. Wait, no. She puts her hand _inside_ her head, into a gaping, dark hole in the back of her head. Her wrist disappears into it. Her forearm. More of her arm goes into it than it feels like should even be possible. And then she draws her hand back out of the hole in her head, and in the palm of her hand there is now crouched a long legged, dark, spindly thing. A spider. “Isn’t he just the cutest?” 

Melanie gapes. 

“Oh, right. There’s nothing wrong with me having a hole in my head, pet. There’s nothing wrong with me having spiders inside of me either.” 

Melanie’s mouth closes, and she relaxes. Everything’s alright. The spider skitters across Annabelle’s hand, and she turns and twists her hand around so that the spider is always running across it, like a hamster in a wheel. 

“There we go. Now, as I was saying. Filling the ranks. As darling as these little spiders are, they are, quite frankly, expendable. And their lifespans aren’t all that impressive anyways. So we go through a lot of them in a short amount of time. They’re very useful regardless, however, so it’s important to keep new ones coming in to replace the old ones. One can’t just take any old spider that happens to be spinning a cobweb in some basement. It needs to be born of the Web. Of control. Get it?” 

Melanie doesn’t get it. She nods anyways, because it seems like that’s what Annabelle is waiting for, and all she wants to do is give Annabelle what she wants. She’s so beautiful, and she makes Melanie feel so good. She wants to give her _everything._

“So, at least here in the UK, that duty is relegated to me. I love the work after all. The Mother makes me love it, but the result is the same. I’m enjoying myself. I make sure that more Web spiders are born, to keep a steady supply coming. And you’re going to help me with that, as so many other lovely incubators have before. I think you’ll do a wonderful job, pet. You’re going to work hard and try and help me, aren’t you? You said you’d do me a favor.” 

“I did,” she agrees, feeling hazy and restless and eager to please all at once. _Incubator_ lands heavier in her head than the rest of the words though. Not easily dismissed, forgotten. It’s important. Incubator. She’s an incubator? For what? For… 

The long, spindly black spider settles with obedient stillness in the palm of Annabelle’s hand as she curls her fingers upwards, caging it in. Casually, she puts it back inside of her head, drawing her arm back out of the dark cavern in her skull. 

Melanie wants to give Annabelle anything that she wants. And she _had_ promised to do her a favor, in exchange for coming. But what, what is she supposed to do here, exactly? She can’t mean-- 

“What do you want for me to do?” she asks, a vague unease rising inside of her through the pleasure fog in her mind. Her hand is still on her breast, her fingers tucked up inside of her, but neither are moving any longer. She can’t bear to take them out-- she’s so _empty--_ but getting the answer to that question suddenly somehow manages to feel more important than getting fucked. 

“Oh, pet,” Annabelle says warmly. “Nothing at all. All you need to do is just lie back and take it. You can do that, can’t you? Just lie on your back, spread your legs, and let me fill you up. Doesn’t that sound easy? Doesn’t that sound _fun?_ It’s what you're best at, after all. Definitely what you look _prettiest_ while doing.” 

The unease burns away underneath the sheer heat that lights up inside of her. Pretty, yes, that’s what she wants to be. Useful. She wants to be pretty and useful for Annabelle, more than anything else. And she _loves_ getting fucked by Annabelle. It’s her favorite thing to do in the world.

“Please,” she says raggedly. “Please, let’s do that.” 

Annabelle finally, finally takes the open invitation of Melanie’s spread legs, and sits down between them. She leans down to stroke Melanie’s cheek, and press a chaste, loving kiss to her forehead. Melanie flushes, hot and flustered. She’s never really known how to respond when things get so unbearably _tender._ Not that she doesn't like it. She likes it a lot, actually. Just… doesn’t know what to say. 

“So much better like this,” Annabelle says, almost to herself. “Sure, the wriggling and squirming and begging was cute, but I still get that now, don’t I? Just a little bit differently. Sweeter. You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” she says immediately. She wants to be sweet for Annabelle. She _will_ be sweet for Annabelle, if that’s what she wants. 

“Yes, you are,” she agrees, tucking a lock of Melanie’s hair behind her ear. “You’ve been such a good fucktoy, and I just know that you’re going to be an even better incubator. You’ll take care of my babies, won’t you? Of course you will, such a sweet thing like you.” 

With that, Annabelle hefts up one of Melanie’s knees to get a better view of her dripping cunt. And that’s when Melanie finally notices what’s between Annabelle’s legs. 

She’s been so enraptured by her face before, until now. Watching her warm, fond eyes, the quirk of her lips as she smiled at her. She hadn’t even noticed that Annabelle doesn’t have anything that she’d expect between her legs. 

Melanie’s slept with all kinds of people before. Men, women, nonbinary, intersex, circumsized and not, trans and cis, pre and post op. None of them have had anything that looks like what Annabelle has. It… it _sort of_ looks like a cock, but undeniably different. The shape is a bit too… narrow? Almost tapered, the tip slimmer than the base. There’s no balls either, she realizes. And the hole, the prick, it looks-- well, it doesn’t look like a regular prick, she can at least say that confidently. But it at least looks like it’s supposed to go inside of her. 

“Ah, right,” says Annabelle. “There’s nothing strange about my situation, love. It’s just been… optimized for its appropriate purpose, by dear Mother. In fact, you even _like_ it. It looks positively mouth watering. You want it in you.” 

Melanie wants it in her. She makes an urgent, needy noise and tries to spread her legs wider, lifting her hips a bit to try and give Annabelle the best angle possible. Annabelle smirks and then takes her… her _member,_ and she lines it up with Melanie’s entrance. 

“Do you want it, sweetie?” 

“Yes! Yes, yes, come on Annabelle, please, stop _drawing it out--”_

Annabelle slides in with one smooth motion. The breath in Melanie’s lungs leaves her all at once. Annabelle takes hold of both of Melanie’s legs, tugs at them, and a spark (a string pulls) of comprehension goes off and she throws her legs around Annabelle, locking her ankles together at the small of her back, pulling her in as close as possible. Annabelle shivers with pleasure, and wriggles, nestling her member as far into Melanie as it will go, their hips flush together. 

“Mmph,” Annabelle huffs. “Oh, you feel good, pet. Tight and warm and wet.” 

The praise lights up something in her brain and a pleased shiver travels down her spine. Annabelle is inside of her, she’s making Annabelle feel good, giving her what she wants, and she’s filling her up nice and snug. Annabelle’s so nice. 

Everything is perfect. Annabelle doesn’t even need to thrust or move. She’s content to just lie here forever. She feels _complete,_ with Annabelle inside of her. 

Except Annabelle’s breathing is getting louder and heavier, like she’s straining herself. Melanie opens her eyes, doesn’t even remember when she’d closed them. Annabelle is leaning all of her weight on her elbows, bracketing around Melanie's head, her face not far away. Her brow is furrowed with concentration, and she looks… tense. Like she’s in the middle of an orgasm? But there isn’t any dazed euphoria in her expression either, what-- 

Annabelle’s member moves inside of Melanie’s cunt, without Annabelle moving a single muscle. Wait, no. It’s-- swelling? Getting bigger. Melanie lets out a soft, confused moan as it continues to slowly get bigger. With it so tapered and thin, it had practically been a comfortable easy fit after the giant strap. But not it’s-- at its base-- _Jesus Christ_ it’s getting big. 

“Annabelle?” she says, and then can’t help a bit of a whine as her member gets even _bigger,_ the swelling traveling upwards from the base. “What--” 

“Hush, pet,” Annabelle pants. “You just have to lie there and take it. Let me concentrate.” 

Melanie hushes. Mostly. Increasingly, as the thing penetrating her gets larger and larger, she can’t help her overwhelmed whimpering and moaning. Annabelle doesn’t tell her to stop that, at least, so it must be fine. 

It feels good. Of course it does, it’s Annabelle, and Melanie _loves_ getting fucked by Annabelle, would let her do whatever she wants to her. But it’s so _much._ She keeps thinking that it can’t possibly get any bigger, but then it _keeps getting bigger._

Soon, it’s as big as the strap was. Bigger. She pants and moans, loud and helpless, and Annabelle’s clutching at the sheets, sweat beading at her brow. And _then--_

Melanie _screams_ as her back arches right off the bed and something goes deep, deep inside of her. Not like spunk, something solid and heavy, and it’s so _big_ and going so _deep_ and it’s making her come all over again, an orgasm with all the force of a natural disaster, rising sudden and hard out of nowhere. And the orgasm just keeps _going,_ for as long it takes the thing to-- to go into her, using her cunt as an entrance to her body. It moves slowly. It takes a long time. She _comes._

At the end of it she’s left lax and panting on the bed like she’s run a marathon, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling as if shocked by her own body, by the heights of sensation she can apparently be mercilessly pushed and shoved into. She looks down her body and sees-- there’s a swelling in her stomach. A bump, where there hadn’t been one before. She looks… 

She looks like she’s a few months pregnant, just far enough along for things to start showing. 

Incubator, Annabelle had called her. 

Annabelle gently strokes the bump in Melanie’s stomach, and it makes her whimper loudly and her toes curl. She ever so softly presses down on it, and a _cry_ rips out of her as her cunt clenches down on Annabelle’s member. Oh fuck that feels weird, like so much, like she’s being touched and fucked deeper than she’s ever been touched or fucked before. It sends desperate, squirming, helpless heat jolting straight to the pit of her belly, her cunt. 

“Look at you,” Annabelle coos. “You’re so beautiful like this, holding my babies safe and close and warm in your body. Such a caring mother. You’re going to be such a _good_ mommy, aren’t you?” 

She’s too overwhelmed to form words, with Annabelle gently, gently pushing down on the-- the egg in her stomach, that must be what it is, there’s an _egg_ inside of her. All she can do is keen, tears beading at the edges of her eyes. Annabelle tenderly kisses them away. 

“There, there. I know it’s a lot, but you like it, don’t you? You love everything I do to you, remember. You _like_ being pumped full of my babies, right? I know you do. It feels so good, the stretch and strain of it. Being _full._ Whole. Pretty and useful. That’s all you want to be. Isn’t that right, pet?” 

It does. It does feel good. The new weight in her stomach is heavy and solid, and it feels like it's pinning her to this bed all on its own. Pinning her to reality. Hesitantly, carefully, she reaches up with her own hands to the little-- the baby bump on her stomach. She caresses it, her touch feather light. She shivers with the deep, profound pleasure that washes over her at even that light touch. 

“‘S good,” she slurs, feeling hazy and _wrecked._

“Good,” Annabelle says. “You can take more, can’t you?” 

The words register with her slowly. “... What?” 

“I know you can. Plenty of more room in there. You may be petite, but you can take more than one measly egg, pet. All of my lovely, dutiful incubators have. Don’t you want to be good?” 

She can’t _imagine_ fitting more into herself. But… Annabelle knows best. And she _does_ want to be good. She makes herself nod. Annabelle smiles approvingly, fondly caresses her face with one hand, and then closes her eyes in concentration. 

The next egg comes as inexorably as the first. The slow, unstoppable stretching breach of it drives her _mad,_ tugging helplessly at the sheets, her own hair, making shameless, open mouthed noises of strain and blatant overwhelmed pleasure, because while it’s _too much_ it’s too much in a way that is making her come in one long orgasm, drawn out impossibly to last for the entirety of the process of the egg entering her. 

She can’t arch her back this time, because the first egg is-- every time she moves too much it jostles and then there’s _more_ and it’s already too much and she can’t _take_ it, so she instead tries to lie very, very still even while _this_ is happening to her. 

The second egg settles heavily inside of her, and Melanie _sobs_ at the sensation of it bumping up against the first one. She gasps in air, desperate and loud, her skin glistening with sweat, her chest rising and falling, tears streaking down her face. Each time she comes, it’s so much more brutal than the last time. 

Annabelle lightly strokes Melanie’s stomach-- bulging even more obviously now-- and smiles encouragingly at her. “You’re doing so well. Look at you, so nice and big already. I think that’s why I like the small ones, you know. More dramatic of a change. Ready for another one?” 

Melanie can’t do anything but sob again, and cant her hips up pleadingly, because yes, yes she wants more even though she can’t possibly imagine being able to take more. The eggs inside of her move slightly at even that little movement, and she squeezes her eyes shut and _keens._

“Oh, good girl. Shh, shh. I’ve got you. Here comes another egg, don’t you worry. We’re going to make you so full and lovely, aren’t we?” 

Another egg comes. Melanie is dragged mercilessly along for another long, stretching, blinding orgasm, whiting out her thoughts and leaving her mouth running even as she isn’t registering her own words-- desperate moans for more, pleading with her to stop, for mercy, overwhelmed oversensitive whimpers and moans and cries. 

It doesn’t matter how broken and wrecked and fucked out Melanie feels, because the third egg comes exactly as slowly and unstoppably as the last. She can _feel_ it, can feel the way it settles inside of her with the other two. She looks down at herself, almost unable to believe that this is really her body. It looks so… her stomach is so big. Swollen, like she’s heavily pregnant. 

_“Beautiful,”_ Annabelle says fervently, still buried to the root inside of her. “You look beautiful like this, exactly the way you should be, burdened and bed bound with my spawn.” 

Something sparks happily inside of her brain at the praise, even with how exhausted she is. Melanie moans, because words are beyond her. 

Annabelle caresses Melanie’s breasts. 

“You know, these are going to swell,” she says. “They always do, when I check back in with my incubators. The body gets confused, and thinks it needs to get ready to nurse some squalling infant mammals soon. But what you’re going to get isn’t going to need any mother’s milk. They’ll just scurry right off to work, don’t you worry. Which means you’re going to have to tend to your swollen, heavy breasts yourself. You’ll have to milk yourself. Do you understand, pet? I want for you to take care of yourself even after I’m gone.” 

She doesn’t understand. Annabelle’s voice is wonderful, but at this point she isn’t registering a single one of her words. She can’t stop herself from gently rocking against where Annabelle is buried inside of her, for the way it makes the eggs move in her body, sending waves of pleasure rippling through her. She moans softly. 

“Oh, pet,” she says fondly. “Well, that’s alright. I’ll make sure to send a little puppet along every single day to take care of you. They’ll help feed you and wash you and milk you, give you water. And of course, fuck you. I know how much you love that. You need to come, don’t you? That’s why you were looking for someone to take you home tonight, at the party. Well, you won’t have to go looking again for a long time. I take care of my incubators. You’re bearing my children after all. It’s the least I can do for you, when you’re doing such a good job.” 

Annabelle won’t stop stroking her, and she loves that. Her thighs, her breasts, her sides… She clenches down gratefully on Annabelle’s member, who huffs a little surprised laugh. 

“Do you want more eggs, sweetie?”

Melanie stops. The words _more_ and _eggs_ penetrate her pleasured, mindless fog. 

She already feels so incredibly full. 

“I… dunno?” she says. She should be saying yes. She should be saying _yes please give me more Annabelle, I can take anything you want to give me._ But she really isn’t sure that she can. She can’t imagine another one of those huge things inside of herself. How could it possibly fit? 

“I’m sure you can take more,” Annabelle says decisively. “Just one more, alright, sweetheart?” 

She feels fearful apprehension tight in her chest, and nods. Annabelle coos praise at her, and grabs her hips and soon the fourth egg _pushes_ into her. Melanie trembles and clutches at whatever she can grab and bites her lip. The egg pushes, jostling for space in a place already filled with three eggs crowded together snug and close. She shakes and _screams._

“I can’t!” she says, high and broken and frantic. “There’s-- there’s not enough room left, it won’t _fit,_ I can’t take more, Annabelle _please.”_

“Oh, pet,” Annabelle gasps, “yes you can, I know you can. I know better than you. God, you feel so good. You’re perfect for this, so _tight…”_

There can’t possibly be more room left in her for a fourth egg, but she lies down and takes it anyways, and the fourth egg is pumped into her as inexorably as the first three. After what feels like a long trembling eternity of Melanie crying and begging for mercy and Annabelle praising her, the fourth and final egg finally, _finally_ settles inside of her. She can feel them all inside of her, pushed up against each other so closely that they don’t jostle with every little movement any longer. 

Melanie comes, of course. She clenches down on Annabelle’s member and comes on it messily, feeling too weak to even clutch at anything, like she’s a helpless victim of her own orgasm. 

“Mmm,” Annabelle hums, like she’s just finished an incredible dessert. “That was _good.”_

And then she pulls out of Melanie. She can’t help a broken whimper at that, at that removal. There’s nothing she loves more than being fucked by Annabelle. Not having her-- her shaft?-- inside of her any longer leaves her feeling bereft, hollow. Empty and incomplete. 

“Oh sweetie, don’t cry. You did so good for me.” Comfortingly, Annabelle slips two of her fingers into Melanie’s sopping wet and sore cunt, not even fingering her, just resting them inside of her. Melanie makes a small grateful noise. Words still feel beyond her. She’s so tired. 

God, her stomach looks huge. She can’t even see where Annabelle has her fingers inside of her, just feel it. Annabelle sits off to the side of her hip, and Melanie watches with exhausted incomprehension as Annabelle’s member slips back inside of her body. It was retractable, apparently. Annabelle sweeps her gaze over Melanie’s body appreciatively, like a finished work of art that she’s rather proud of. 

“Excellent,” she says. “Now, as for orders. Melanie, are you listening to me? Nod if you’re listening.” 

Melanie nods. She’s glad she hadn’t asked for more. She’s not even sure she can sit up on her own any longer, much less get out of the bed. She’s so _big._

“Good. Now. I’m going to leave you, pet. No, shush. I can’t just stay here until the end of time fucking you day in and out. I _do_ have things to do besides filling you up. You’re just going to have to accept that. In the meanwhile, you’re going to stay inside of your flat where you’re nice and safe. Attendants will come along with groceries to cook for you and clean you up and fuck you and help take care of you. You’re going to take care of yourself. You’re going to eat your meals and drink water regularly and sleep eight hours a night, aren’t you? And you’re not going to hurt yourself, or do anything to endanger the eggs. Because this is going to end, pet. The strings controlling your thoughts and emotions… they’re so frail. Wispy. They’ll break in a matter of days, if not hours. You’ll come back to yourself, and I imagine you’ll be rather upset, despite how much you enjoyed yourself. Six orgasms in one night, pet, that’s nothing to scoff at. But the strings controlling your behavior? Strong as steel. You _will_ take care of yourself. You _will_ protect the eggs until they come out of you, ready for hatching.” 

Annabelle leans down to whisper the next bit into her ear. “And you will come at least twice every single day. You will be nice and well fucked, don’t you worry about that. What do we say to that?” 

Melanie’s mouth says it for her. “Thank you, Annabelle.” 

Annabelle smiles. “You’re welcome, pet.”


End file.
